For the first time, Justin and I are a bit sick of each other.

We’re companionable enough, but he nags me to use fewer pots while cooking. I snap at him for getting mad about the dirty dishes, and whine about being a full-time laundress. He stresses about our grocery bills, and I sulk because a twelve-dollar block of guinness cheese fools me, for a moment, into thinking our life is reaching some acceptable grade of carefree.

The ‘us’ we used to be is on hiatus. At least I hope it is – a hiatus assumes a return.

In having a child, we’ve matured, become fuller, more intimate. Yet we’re mundane, disconnected. We stand together, staring off into space in the same general direction.

Two years ago, we were ourselves. I wasn’t pregnant yet.

Today we pour so much physical affection into our son, we hardly have any left for each other. Money is woe. We’ve both pressed the restart button on our careers, both wracked with insecurity. The lifestyle we treasured is gone thanks to the double-whammy of parenthood and easternhood. We both feel a little lost, shadows of who we used to be.

I used to scoff at people who’d say that marriage takes work. Whoever says that married the wrong person. I couldn’t imagine not having the energy to treasure this man.

But now, I’m a cliché. From a sparkling partnership full of adventure to a dishevelled wife in sweats with a messy kitchen, and fantastic photo albums collecting dust on the bookshelf. At least we’re still united by the same fear: being boring. But it’s upon us, and it’s soul-sucking.

I spend a lot of time convincing myself I’m content.

Hoping that somehow, just having these memories makes me who I am. But it’s not enough. Am I selfish to admit it? A shallow mother? I want more of them, more of who we were. But we’re so far removed, I don’t know what to do about it.